Doom Patrol
by Doctor Foster
Summary: In which Larry Trainor and Rita Farr reach an understanding ...


The apartment was small and shabby. The wall-paper that covered the walls was dirty and stained. In places – especially near the spider web-covered ceiling – the wall-paper was peeling off the walls. Likewise, the furniture in the apartment was bare and well-worn. The television set was just old. A cheap and worn carpet covered most of the floor but not all of it. This was a low-rent apartment in a low-rent part of town.

Larry Trainor sat without moving in an old armchair facing the television set. He had not moved for quite some time and merely watched the flickering television light without interest or enjoyment. The light from the set provided the only source of illumination in the room for all the blinds on all the three windows were closed. The volume on the TV set was turned down low and Trainor's arms rested without moving on the arms of the chair, his feet were similarly placed firmly on the floor before him. This was a figure that did not seem to be relaxed. Like an automaton he merely sat in imitation of a human being that was sitting to watch television.

Trainor was wearing his pyjamas, unbuttoned and striped, over which he wore an old dressing gown. Neither his gown nor the shirt of his pyjamas were done up so it was possible to see that he was heavily bandaged. In fact his entire body and face was bandaged as were his hands although in many places the soiled bandages were loose, frayed and hanging free from their purpose. Where they were loose and should have revealed the body beneath, the gaps in the bandages revealed only an eerie blackness.

A key turning the lock of the door indicated that someone else was about to enter the apartment.

"Larry, I'm back," announced the newcomer. "I managed to get the book you asked for."

Rita Farr approached Trainor. She pulled the book out of her bag and held it out for him. In response he barely turned his head to glance in Rita's direction. But as she continued to hold it out towards him he eventually moved his arm and took the book from her. "Thank you," his voice whispered.

Relieved of the book, Rita took off her raincoat and returned to the apartment's door where she hung it on a hook on the wall. "It's still raining," she continued cheerfully.

"Yes," Trainor answered. "The book is damp."

"Sorry," Rita replied. "They'd run out of bags."

She reached down and slipped off her high-heeled shoes. "How are you feeling? Shall I get you something to eat?"

"I'm okay," he replied.

Rita moved towards the small kitchenette and opened the fridge. "You have eggs," she announced. "I can make you an omelette."

"I'm okay," he repeated.

"I'll make you an omelette," she said ignoring his non-committal reply. With the eggs still in her hand, she closed the fridge door and began to rummage through a cupboard for a frying pan. "I'm not a great cook but I can make a great omelette."

With some difficulty, Trainor began to leaf through the pages of the book that Rita had given him. He did not seem to be paying any attention to what Rita was up to in the kitchen.

Rita was seemingly aged in her early-thirties, slim and attractive with shoulder-length auburn coloured hair. She was wearing a plain white buttoned shirt over a fawn-coloured skirt.

"Larry, I'm putting the light on," she said. "I can't see in this light."

"Don't open the blinds!" Trainor's voice rose into the semblance of a warning but was still a rasping croak.

"I'm not opening the blinds. I'm switching on the light."

"Okay," he answered returning his attention to the book.

Later, when the meal was finished, Rita took Larry's plate off him. She was pleased that he had managed to clear everything and was happily doing the washing-up when Larry called her: "Rita, come and look at this." Rita left her washing-up and as she dried her hands she watched a news-report on the television.

The news report was from a rundown area of the city-docks where a special report on stolen vehicles was being broadcast from a large scrap-yard. Within the scrap-yard a large humanoid form could be dimly seen tearing into the old cars and folding them into strange and obscure shapes while the raging inferno and smoke of an open furnace could also be seen in the background.

"We should check this out," Larry suggested.

Rita was not convinced: "What, go down there? Why would you want to do that?"

"Because it's the sort of thing we do," Larry answered.

"No, let somebody else do it."

"You don't want to?"

"No, I don't"

"You've changed, Rita. At one time you would have been straining at the leash to get down there."

"Perhaps I would have, at one time, but not now. There must be plenty of youngsters wanting to make a name for themselves, well, let them." Rita reached for her shoes and began to put on her coat. "I'm going now."

Larry's attention was glued to the television screen; "What, so soon?"

"Yes, it's late. I'll call and see you again, tomorrow."

Larry's response was a vague acknowledgement. "Okay, bye." He was intent on following the news report as it developed. Moments later, after Rita had gone and shut the door behind her, he spoke again: "That looks like a giant!" When he didn't get a response from Rita he turned towards where he thought she was standing and was mystified to find that he'd been speaking to an empty room.


End file.
